Her Beauty
by Maat
Summary: As the violent events at the Opera unfold around her, Christine starts to shatter as she is drawn to desperate measures to free herself from her bonds. Oneshot, darkfic.


**Hello, this is Maat, and dark oneshots are apparently in my system at the moment. Please review to let me know if you enjoy twisted stories as much as I do, or if you think I´m just crazy.**

**PS: I´m about to (hopefully) begin a full length Phantom fanfiction soon, so keep your eyes peeled for it. The title isn´t known yet, but it will be modern day and have a quite dark, Leroux based Erik, so if you enjoy my oneshots or my other fictions keep this in mind!**

**Reviews keep me sane and spur me on. Won´t you contribute to a good cause?**

Her Beauty

"Do you love me because I'm beautiful?"

The question hung in the air, unexpected, as he turned from the organ to look at her with mild surprise. She finished her question, bravely, wildly.

"…Or just because of my voice?"

She shouldn't have asked, but she saw how he treasured beautiful things. Jewels, paintings, music, roses with perfect petals. She saw how he surrounded himself with beauty as if to cloud and cover his own hideousness. She saw, and she doubted, doubted as he dressed her beautiful clothes like a fine doll, as he watched her brush her hair with an almost trembling fascination, as they sang together and their combined beauty became perfectly painful in the air.

She was still waiting for an answer. He tilted his head at her like a bird, unsure of how to answer. What did she mean by saying this so suddenly?

"Why do you ask these things?" he finally asked.

Her stomach twisted painfully. He had not denied it, only questioned her curiosity. She took a deep breath.

"Because I need to know. Sometimes I feel like you don't even see me, you only see a voice….and a face…" she trailed off.

He laughed softly, rising from the organ as he spoke and crossing the room to stand near her. "My dear," he said, and raised a hand as if to touch her face, coming within inches of her skin before dropping his hand sharply and turning away. "You are being foolish."

She watched, her hands twisted in front of her, as he crossed back to the organ and looked at her expectantly. Her breath caughtharshly in her throat, but she swallowed her emotions, whatever they were, and moved to stand next to him as they began their lesson.

-------------

Those feelings, those strange buddings of doubt and hope and other unnamed, unwanted emotions sickened and wilted and dropped heavily into her stomach as she watched the body of the sweet, foolish old man drop from the rafters. She stared at his face, thick and purple and distorted, his eyes wide and bulging, and her strange new emotions died and blossomed again as fear.

Such fear!

How could she have ever felt anything else?

And when Raoul's warm hand found her own and pulled her away from the horrible sight she snapped out of her stasis and ran, ran like a woman hunted, pulling the confused young man behind her up all those hundreds of steps. She ran until her sides hurt, until her breath came out in short gasps, but she didn't stop until she had thrown open the door of the roof and skidded toward the edge.

Raoul caught her body, slowing her momentum. "Christine, what are you doing? Why are we here?"

His voice seemed to be coming to her from far away, and she clung to him hysterically as if to convince herself that he was really there.

"He killed Buquet, Raoul, he killed him! And he's coming for me, I'm not safe here, oh God, I can't escape!"

"Christine!" He grabbed her shoulders, his face a mask of fear and worry. "Calm down, please, and tell me what is going on. Who killed Buquet? Who is after you?"

She couldn't say his name, not here, in his Opera, not even on the roof. Nothing was safe, and that small part of her that still believed in ghosts and angels and demons believed that perhaps saying his name would invoke the person, and he would rise before her and take her away forever.

Raoul gripped her shoulder's tighter, alarmed at her lack of response. "Christine, who?"

Finally she raised her eyes to meet his. "The Phantom," she whispered, telling him the only way she knew how.

His grip loosened and he almost laughed. "Christine, don't tell me that you believe those old stories…"

"They're not stories, he's real!" She exclaimed hysterically. "He's a person, Raoul, he lives beneath the Opera where it's always dark and you can't escape and his face…" she trailed off and stared at the ground, her whole body shaking. She could still hear his screams in her head, those horrible sounds as the mask fell to the floor, still see him crawling toward her, begging…

How could she have forgotten? How could she have let herself sink into a state of calm and warmth?

Raoul cupped her chin in his hands and lifted her face so that she was looking him in the eye. "His face?" He questioned softly.

She looked away, shamefaced, feeling like, even after everything, she was betraying him. "He's …deformed," she whispered tremblingly. "Horribly. I can't get it out of my mind…"

"Oh God," he whispered, finally believing. He drew her into the circle of his arms, holding her tightly to him, feeling her heart beat like a frightened bird, so fast. "It will be alright," he murmured. "I'm here, I'll make everything all right."

"Raoul," she whispered, and the wind sighed.

Her head jerked up. "We're not safe here," she breathed, her voice once again tinged with hysteria. She began to twist her hands, slipping the small gold ring on and off of her finger. "I'm never safe."

"Don't say that!" Raoul took her hands in his, his young face determined. "I won't let anything hurt you. Don't you believe me? Christine, I love you."

Her head jerked upward as she stared at him, feeling her panic swirl inside of her, eating at her. She could feel eyes everywhere, cold, unforgiving eyes, and a scream bubbled in her throat.

This was wrong. This wouldn't work. She couldn't take his life in her hands and be so foolishly careless with it. What chance would Raoul stand against _him_?

Something inside of her broke off and slipped down into the darkness as she realized that not even her childhood friend could protect her. No one could. She was alone, utterly alone, a lost child screaming in the darkness, screaming and screaming as everything that formed her soul was torn away into the wind.

It was so dark here!

She pulled her hands from his. "I can't," she whispered. "You don't understand, you can't protect me, not from him. And if I draw you into this he'll kill you. He will. I'll never be safe as long as he still wants me."

Her last words seemed to echo around her tired ears, and she heard them and understood.

_As long as he still wants me._

How simple. Easy. How could she have not seen it before?

All was not lost. She could be safe. There was a way to never see him again, to lose him forever in the darkness, to be free.

_Do you love me because I'm beautiful?_

Such a simple answer.

Christine smiled like a ghost and brushed Raoul's lips with her own, startling him with her sudden languid action.

"If you still want me later, then I will be yours," she whispered. "If you truly love me."

"I do," he said earnestly as she pulled away from him and walked across the roof. "I do, Christine."

She turned to him and, with a peaceful sadness on her face, whispered, "We'll see."

She descended back down into the Opera, filled with peace. And when Raoul came to her the next night, his arms filled with flowers and his smile that of a young man in love, he tasted her fear for the first time.

The first thing he noticed was the large black cloth that covered the large mirror on her far wall, as if shielding the room from prying eyes. It seemed so odd and out of place that he just stared at it for a moment, transfixed.

Then he heard her crying.

She was huddled in a ball in the corner, her face tilted over a large washbasin filled with reddish water. Rages stained red brown were scattered around her unmoving form, and her long brown hair hung limply over her face and trailed in the sickly water.

"Oh God," he muttered, and dropped the flowers as he ran to her side. "Christine, Christine, who did this to you? What happened?"

Her voice was ragged but strangely calm. "No one did this to me, Raoul. I found the answer. How to always to be free. Because…" and she lifted her head to look at him, her face a mass of deep cuts oozing blood, sliced carefully around her face to sever all links with beauty. "No man would ever want me like this."

Raoul stared at her distorted face, shocked. "Christine…" he whispered. She smiled painfully at him and cleaned her face with a wet rag, her movements relaxed and languid.

"Can't have an infection," she said in a sing song voice.

He tried to draw her into his arms. "It's ok," he said in a choked voice. "I'll make everything ok. We can fix this, we'll get you to a doctor and we can make it better…"

She swung on him, her eyes blazing and her wounded face suddenly terrifying. "But everything is already fixed, Raoul! This is the way it's supposed to be! I'm free now, don't you see? Don't you see?" And she laughed, a horribly happy sound.

He pulled at her hands, attempting to lift her to her feet. "Come on, I'll get you to a doctor," he whispered. "Christine, please…"

She yanked her hands away. "No," she hissed. "No doctors. I'm happy now. Don't take this away from me, Raoul. Aren't you happy for me, love?" She closed her eyes and rocked back on her heels, the small knife lying forgotten beside her, her small hands covered in blood. She smiled slightly. "Free."

He shakily stood and inched to the door. "Stay here," he commanded. "I'm going to get help…just stay here, Christine."

"Where else would I be?" she questioned dreamily as he left the room.

She was alone for a few quiet minutes after he left, and she hummed a soft tune to herself before speaking.

"I know that you're here."

The dark shadow of a man knelt before her silently, and a soft sigh sounded as one finger gently traced a long shallow wound, making her catch her breath in pain.

"He doesn't understand," she whispered.

"No, he doesn't," was the soft, sad response. "He could not understand us."

She lifted her head to face him, the light in her eyes cracked and broken. She smiled wearily. "I have made a mess out of things, haven't I?"

He was silent for a few moments before he took her hand, drawing her to her feet gracefully and surveying her with soft eyes.

"Come, my dear," he whispered. "Let us find you a mask."


End file.
